


You'll Never Have Nowhere to Go

by thisprettywren



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Gen, Minor Character Death, Post Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-14
Updated: 2012-05-07
Packaged: 2017-11-03 15:59:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 18,828
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/383274
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thisprettywren/pseuds/thisprettywren
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"What you did, to make me watch you, it was—is—cruel."</p><p>Sherlock's voice is quiet. "Sentiment often is."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Many many thanks to longtimegone, prettyarbitrary, and airynothing for whacking this thing into shape. Any remaining errors are 100% mine and usually committed in the face of loud protests.

John sets his bag down beside the door, picks it up again, and deposits it beside the fireplace instead. No reason to look quite so eager to be on his way when Arthur’s daughter comes by for the key. He has hours yet before his train.

Ella thought it would be good for him--get out of the city; reconnect with his sister--and okay, yes, maybe she’s right. Maybe she’s right about him needing a change of scene in order to move on. Maybe--probably; no, almost certainly--about more than that. But inertia is a powerful thing, and John is just… stuck.

It will only be for a few weeks, anyway. Just long enough to get thoroughly sick of Harry and start to miss his own life again, or what there was of it to miss, and he’d come back energised and ready to get on with things.

John grits his teeth, clenching his fist around the handle of his cane. He isn’t being logical about things. It isn’t as though he spends all his time cooped up here, staring at the walls in 221b; he has plenty of things to occupy his time. Plenty to occupy his mind. He’s still working, after all. He still gets out for a pint every now and again. He’d been out with Mike just this past… well, perhaps that has been a while. He’ll ring him again, John decides. When he gets back from Harry’s. 

Harry. Christ. She’s tried to be supportive but she has her own problems, John knows that well enough, but still, the thought of dealing with her now--now, of all times--is almost too much. He’s been putting it off for years. If he’s honest with himself, without Margaret’s arrival to spur him along, he might not be making the trip even now.

The truth is, he just doesn’t want to go. It had taken him so long to come back here, after, and to leave now feels like a betrayal. But if not now, then when? It would be so easy to let inertia carry him on and on, for months. Years.

And besides, not much choice about it at this point. Margaret will be coming by soon to pick up the key to the flat, and she and her friend would hardly enjoy themselves with John hanging about the place. Lucky timing, that; her flight landed at Heathrow earlier that afternoon, in from America to spend a few weeks in London, needing a cheap place to stay. Nothing cheaper than free, right? So John will take it as a chance to get out of the city. 

John scrubs his hand over his face. He can hear Ella’s voice in his head: _John, you’re stuck in a rut_. Well, he’s doing something about it now, isn’t he? He’s going to take a holiday.

Just a holiday, then he’ll be back. A change of pace for him, a change of pace for Mrs Hudson, and maybe when he returns things will be a little easier between them, for a while.

Mrs Hudson will appreciate having someone to look after. Someone who will appreciate her efforts, who doesn’t have hangups about limitations and disability. Someone who won’t mind the way she fusses. Someone she can look at without having to hide the sadness in her eyes.

He casts his gaze around the room again, touching his tongue to his lip. The flat is as ready as he knows how to make it. He even turned up the spare key earlier, it's right-- no, not on the table. Where can it have gone?

He straightens the pillow in his armchair. Letting the girls stay here, where he and Sherlock lived, makes him unaccountably nervous. He can’t quite shake the feeling that there must be some experiment he’s yet to uncover, some disturbing detritus still lurking in the corners of the cupboards, in the drawers. The flat isn’t as cluttered as it used to be, most of its contents packed away in boxes. There are actual horizontal surfaces now, visible ones, everything neat and well-dusted. He put off coming back here for so long, after… well, _after_ , that most of Sherlock’s things had already been packed away. He just never got around to filling the place up again. First it felt wrong, too soon, and then-- and then. Well, it wasn’t anything specific, really--nothing had stopped him--it was just… he just hadn’t. 

And yet he’s still managed to lose the bloody key.

He digs into first one pocket--empty--then the other, shifting his cane to free his right hand to do so, and-- there. He sets it down in the centre of the coffee table with a decisive click of metal on wood. 

He stares at it for a minute, a lone object on an empty surface.

He put off coming back, and now he doesn’t want to leave.

There are voices downstairs, Mrs Hudson’s and another one he doesn’t recognise, female. Margaret, here already. Either he didn't hear the doorbell or she didn’t ring it. It’s possible she wasn't given a chance, Mrs Hudson on alert for her arrival, watching through the curtains to pull open the door so John wouldn’t feel the need to come downstairs to let her in. He can hear her voice in his head: _It must be hard for you, dear, with that leg of yours. Why don’t you just sit down and let me put the place to rights._

It wouldn’t bother him so much if she weren’t right.

The door to the flat is standing open so Margaret lets herself in, just barely, hovering awkwardly beside the doorframe. “Er,” she says, “you must be Doctor Watson? The woman downstairs told me to come up, I hope it’s all right.”

“John.”

She smiles at him in faint surprise--she’s in her early twenties, still young enough that adults introducing themselves by their first names is novel, particularly friends of her parents--and sticks out her hand. John has to fight to keep his own face neutral as he shifts his weight on his cane again so he can offer his own right hand in exchange. Margaret bites her lip but doesn’t break eye contact. 

Her eyes are red-rimmed with exhaustion--Arthur had mentioned she would be on the overnight flight--and yet still excited to be here. John can see the energy sparking beneath the surface of her skin, condemning him implicitly by contrast. When did he get so old? 

Oh, but he knows the answer to that, doesn’t he.

Margaret is sneaking surreptitious glances at the flat over his shoulder, and suddenly it no longer feels like an intrusion. Fresh eyes to see the place he and Sherlock lived; yes, perhaps that will do them both some good. Him and Sherlock. He half-laughs at the absurdity of the thought, but-- well, he still posts to his blog, doesn’t he? Hasn’t he been working on compiling those stories? It’s tiring work. 

Genius needs an audience, even long after it’s left the stage.

“Come in,” he suggests, not quite a question. “Sit down for a bit. Unless you’re in a hurry.”

She twists her lip thoughtfully. “I’m supposed to take a cab to meet my friend, her flight gets in this afternoon. We didn’t realise there were two airports, so….” She trails off with a shrug and a wry smile, the casual acceptance of the young traveler. 

“Oh god, no, you can’t take a cab out there. You’ll eat up your whole travel budget. There’s an express train, I’ll show you.” She flashes him a grateful smile and John feels a surge of protectiveness in his chest, a swelling of affection. Her first time in London; Christ, what he wouldn’t give to be her, just for a while, seeing it for the first time. He’s not ready to send her off, not yet. “You can spare ten minutes for a cup of tea.” 

“Yeah,” she says, and he has to bite his lip at the grin that lit her face. “Yeah, I guess I can stick around for some tea.”

She follows him inside, eyes widening as she gets her first proper look at the interior. John considers the place with fresh eyes. It’s been ages since he really _looked_. The wallpaper really is hideous. Margaret’s eyes widen at the sight of the specimen display case still propped on the mantel, and John feels his mouth twist to a smile. He’d been a bit overwhelmed at first, too. Then again, the first time he was there the place was already full of Sherlock’s things. 

Well. Never mind that.

Margaret makes a noise of--what? Surprise, delight, disgust?--at the framed display of beetle specimens still hanging in the corner, so John leaves her to her own devices in the sitting room to turn on the kettle. He starts to get mugs out of the cupboard over the sink, but, no, he might as well give Margaret a bit of a show. A proper British welcome.

Instead, he kneels to retrieve the tea set stowed next to the oven, scowling at the awkward angle of his leg. The set hasn’t been used in ages. The pieces are coated in a thin film of dust which he rinses off under the tap, the porcelain smooth and fragile between his fingers. He never does this properly anymore; too much ceremony in it, just for one person, but with a guest-- well, he never really did it when Sherlock was alive, either, he’d just never noticed. Back then, he’d been too busy.

Margaret is standing behind the sofa with her head tipped sideways, peering at the shelf beside the fireplace. Her dark curls fall across her face, obscuring it, but John can see her lips move slightly as she reads the titles off the spines of the books. It's an oddly childlike gesture, and just for a moment John wants to wrap his arms around her slight shoulders and hold her and tell her-- what? To go home, that it will all be okay?

Nonsense, utter nonsense. She’s not a child and there’s nothing _wrong_. She’s just here for a bit of sightseeing; Christ, is this what he’s become? Someone who interprets anything new as some sort of danger?

Never mind, he thinks firmly, that there was a time when that wouldn’t have been wrong. When that wouldn’t have been a bad thing at all. But he isn’t that person anymore.

John clears his throat and she turns a bright smile in his direction. “Let me show you around while the water’s boiling,” he says. “Old house, you know, it has some quirks.” She follows him through the kitchen and he has to forcibly relax his shoulders under her gaze, all too aware that she’s slowed her pace to accommodate his limp. “First bedroom in here,” he says, pushing open the door to Sherlock’s room before he can think twice about it.

She walks in first. There are linens on the bed; Mrs Hudson’s doing, no doubt. John certainly hadn’t thought of it; had he been that distracted? 

The room feels almost impossibly bare; he hasn’t been in here in ages. “There’s no one living in here now.” It sounds like an apology; why is he apologising to her? It doesn’t make any sense. He swallows and backs out of the room. “Bath’s through here,” he says, pushing open that door. “The hot tap sticks, so you’ll want to watch that. I’ve been meaning to fix it, but.” Why didn’t he? Inertia, mostly. “Second bedroom’s upstairs, if you want to see it.”

Her eyes flick quickly downward, and if he weren’t attuned to surreptitious glances at his leg he never would have noticed. “I can find it, no worries.”

Christ, is that pity? A hot flood of shame makes its way up his throat, prickling along the back of his neck.

The kettle clicks off and John practically lunges for it, grateful for having something to do with his hands. “Sit down.” His tongue feels thick and clumsy in his mouth. “I’ll bring the tea out in a minute.”

Margaret’s forehead creases briefly in puzzlement but she edges around him in the narrow space and perches herself on the edge of the sofa. John wrenches his attention to the task at hand, all too aware of Sherlock’s door still standing open. Going in there wasn’t so bad; maybe when he gets back from visiting Harry he’ll talk to Mrs Hudson about moving his own things down here, give her a chance to rent out the upstairs bedroom to another tenant. 

It only makes sense. Reduce the number of flights he has to navigate to one. It wouldn’t be a failure, he tells himself firmly; it’s practical. A logical choice.

“Do you need recommendations?” he calls, filling the cups. “Places to eat, things to do?”

“Um,” Margaret answers. “I think we’re probably fine, actually.”

John is seized by a wave of intense relief that’s followed almost immediately by anger, frustration with himself, because the truth is that, as much as he loves this city--and he’s stayed here, despite everything, all this time--he hardly even knows it anymore. There isn’t anything for him there, not really, and yet some things remain true no matter how many others may change: he couldn’t bear to live anywhere else.

 _Can’t bear to live here much, either,_ he thinks wryly. He feels his hand clench into a fist and fights to loosen his jaw enough to stop grinding his teeth together. Takes a deep breath. Christ, it’s unnerving, the way it still creeps up on him. 

His hand is shaking as he sets the cups on the tray.

Maybe he isn’t quite ready to give up the upstairs bedroom, after all.

Maybe this trip really is just what he needs. He repeats it himself like a mantra, as though repetition alone might convince him. Get out of London, see Harry. It might just shake things loose in his brain, give him a fresh perspective, to spend some time with someone who knew him before Sherlock. He might not be the same man, or might not think of himself as such, but-- well, even just that email from Arthur was nice, wasn’t it? Christ, he’d seen pictures of Margaret back when he first met Arthur, early in his first tour, and now here she is, all grown up and sitting on his sofa. She’s had time to become a complete person, and he’s still crippled by a memory of something that didn’t even happen.

If he doesn’t move soon, the water will get cold. He calls out to her, “How do you take your tea? Milk, sugar?”

“Er. Whatever you’re having will be fine.” Ah; she doesn’t know but is too embarrassed to admit it, unsure of the etiquette. Just like Harry at that age. Well, he’ll bring the lot.

He can’t carry the tray with one hand so he hangs his cane from the back of one of the kitchen chairs and steels himself for the short, awkward hobble out into the sitting room. It’s infuriating--even moreso after all these years--but he hasn’t been able to shake it. Harry will mock him for it; or, worse, she’ll hold her tongue but be unable to keep the impatience from her face. John will try to ignore it but eventually one of them will crack and he’ll say something he doesn’t mean and Harry will say something she does, and--

He can feel the frustration beginning to cloud his face; pauses in the doorway to the sitting room to shift his grip on the tray, looking down to buy himself time to school his expression into neutrality, and stops cold.

There, on his chest: a small red point of light. 

He just stares at it. Around him, everything slows down, the room narrowing until all the oxygen is squeezed from the air.

“Oh here, let me help you with that, Doct-- ah, _John_." Margaret's voice seems to come from a long way away. John forces his head upward just in time to see her stand up from the sofa. Everything still feels slow and somehow distant. He opens his mouth but his chest is too tight to speak. She takes a step toward him, arms outstretched to take the tray from his hands.

Then there’s a loud _crack_ and the world behind her shatters into sparks.

She falls forward, arms still reaching for him. The top of her head is simply gone, a sickening crater, and all he can do for the space of several heartbeats is swallow and swallow and blink at the blood and bits of bone blown forward across the carpet, on his jumper, _Jesus_.

He takes a step forward, reaching out for her instinctively. His hands are steady in the air--he’s watching them as though they belong to someone else, the space between the seconds expanding so he has the time to think, _steady hands_ \--then he hears the crash as the tray clatters to the floor, the cups shattering.

He’s dropped the tea.


	2. Chapter 2

_That wasn’t supposed to happen._

It’s his first thought. It’s _absurd_. He’s on the floor, somehow, half-crouching behind the armchair, pulse pounding loud in his ears, breathing so hard it hurts his throat but he still doesn’t seem to be getting any air. 

The dot was on his chest. They were aiming for him. This wasn’t supposed to happen, not here, not at _home_. He got used to Afghanistan, eventually, then he got used to London—London with Sherlock, _could be dangerous_ —but this is— it isn’t—

 _She’s a civilian,_ he thinks, _I should help her._ But she’s no more a civilian than he is. He doesn’t even have his pseudo-police status anymore. This is just him, and Margaret, at home. His home. She was here to get his key, and now she’s— now.

He has to help her, has to do something. But of course it’s too late, a gesture more for his own benefit than anything he might do for her, and even as he thinks it he knows it’s foolish; that would put him in full view of the window. 

The dot had been on his chest. 

There’s nothing he can do. How can there be nothing he can do?

She was dead from the moment the bullet— Christ. Even if there weren’t half a crater where her skull had been, he’d have known it immediately; he knows what _dead_ looks like, the particular curl of limp fingers, the finality of the upturned soles of her shoes. She’s dead; there was nothing he could have done. Nothing he can do.

There’s blood soaking into the carpet, the fibres drawing it outward. For a long moment he’s frozen, wide-eyed, watching it creep toward him inch by inch.

The truth of it is he doesn’t want to die, despite everything. He’d never thought he did—not really; not here—but it still feels like a revelation. And it’s this realisation that slows his pulse, that familiar battlefield calm settling around the edges of his vision, widening his perception. The laser had been sighted on his chest; he doesn’t want to die; he needs cover, better than this.

He’s in Sherlock’s room before he quite finishes formulating the thought, crouching low against the doorframe where he can see the window. He can see Margaret from here, more of her than in the kitchen: her ear, the awkward wrench of her shoulder, her arm still outstretched. Still reaching for him. Four minutes ago she was excited about her first trip to London, and now— 

There was nothing he could have done. Still less he can do now; he grips the doorframe until his fingers are white to the first knuckle.

“Don’t be an idiot, Watson,” he mutters to himself, his lips thick-feeling and slow. This isn’t Afghanistan, there are police, he should call— phone. Where is his mobile? He pats his pockets, his hands feeling oddly distant, but there’s no familiar lump there. Where— of course. He’d been restless, ready to leave. It’s in his jacket, his goddamn jacket. Still in the sitting room. He can get it, probably, if he’s careful.

It will put him in sight of the window, of course. A clear shot. But he can’t just leave her there, he _can’t_ , not for any longer than he absolutely has to, it just isn’t—

No, that’s him being foolish again. Getting himself shot won’t help. Even—or, perhaps, especially—if he doesn’t want to, if he’s willing to do it anyway. It won’t help.

There’s a hot rush of blood up the back of his neck, rage so strong his vision swims with it. This _isn’t supposed to happen_ , he doesn’t know how to deal with it here, not _at home_ , in his fucking sitting room. He was a soldier, this isn’t— gun. He has a gun. Where? An odd blank moment before he remembers: in the bag he’d packed to take to Harry’s. In the sitting room, beside the fireplace.

He’d packed it because he didn’t think it would be safe to leave behind while the girls were here. 

Safe. He swallows the hysterical laugh that threatens to burst from his throat.

There’s a sudden noise behind him and he throws himself backward, away from the doorway, pressing his back to the wall. His hands are groping for a weapon but there’s nothing here, the search heartlessly fruitless with Sherlock’s things long since packed away. He freezes, straining his ears, and yes, _there_. No footsteps but the sound of metal against metal, the fire escape shifting with the weight of a body. A shadow crosses the window, obscured by the curtain.

John presses himself back into the corner, taking deep, steady breaths through his nose. _Inhale. Exhale_. He counts them— _One. Two. Three._ —until his chest feels steady.

Right, okay.

John will be ready. Outside of the flat, he’s in clear view. But all John has to to do is wait for the intruder to come inside, out of the sightline of any potential snipers. John can already see it, feel the pressure of his forearm against his assailant’s throat, the exact amount of pressure it will take to immobilise him without doing permanent damage. Just a bit more than that and the death will look accidental, be deemed legitimate self-defense. And isn’t it? There’s a girl dead in his home and a man on his fire escape.

There’s a rattling at the windowpane. It continues long past the point John thinks he can bear it. John forces himself to wait, shifting his weight to the balls of his feet, breathing, and then finally the window slides upward. 

John breathes. 

The curtain bows inward as the man hitches first one leg, then the other over the windowsill. Wait. _Wait_. John presses his fingertips against the wall, steadying himself, waiting for his moment, and _there_ \--

The instant the man’s feet touch the carpet John launches himself forward, catching him sideways in a low tackle and shoving him away from the window, carrying them both toward the wardrobe with an impact that knocks the air out of the intruder’s chest. He tries to push John away but John puts his head down and forces his advantage, propelling them forward, locking one arm around the intruder’s waist and fisting his hand in his hair to knock his head against the wall once, twice, and the hands that had been pulling at his own fall slack. John releases the man’s hair and gets his arm around his throat instead, applying the pressure that will—

The intruder jerks his shoulder and something inside John goes absolutely dark and impossibly still.

John doesn’t remember releasing his grip, but his hands are at his sides. He can’t feel his fingers. He’s just breathing, and breathing, and staring, the blood pounding so hard in his ears that he might as well be underwater.

 _Sherlock_.

“No,” John says, clearly and distinctly. “No.”

Sherlock has one arm braced on the wall for support as he bends forward, coughing and coughing as though he can’t get his breath.

 _Of course he can’t; he’s dead_. This is mad. This is _wrong_. He takes a step back, then another. He’s distantly aware that he’s standing in clear view of the doorway, of the shattered window, but he can’t seem to care. 

“John.” Sherlock finally pushes himself fully upright, pale eyes sliding up to meet John’s gaze, and John feels something dark unfurl at the base of his throat. “John, I—“

Sherlock reels slightly, grasping at the wall for support. He reaches one hand to his head—hair shorter than John remembers it but still dark, the observation floating almost impassively through his thoughts—and when he pulls it away again there’s a bright shock of blood staining the pale fingers.

 _I did that,_ John thinks, and it takes him the space of several seconds to realise that the sound he’s just heard has come from his own throat.

The realisation seems to awaken something in him; suddenly he can hear sirens, loud and getting louder, the sound coming in from outside. Through the window that’s still standing open because Sherlock fucking Holmes has just come through it, and through the window that’s empty because its glass has been shattered by a bullet. 

Right. _Right_.

“Did you—“ John begins, but can’t seem to organise his tongue around the rest of it, and Sherlock just blinks at him and shakes his head, once. 

Then there’s shouting outside and feet on the stairs and the door to the flat bangs open and the flat explodes into noise and motion. There are officers in uniforms shouting at him, words like _police_ and _on the floor_. 

John hears them as though from a great distance. He drops to his knees on legs that won’t stop shaking, and when he looks up again, Sherlock is gone.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to longtimegone for the beta on this one. Any remaining mistakes are 100% mine and committed in defiance of her thoroughly sound advice.

It doesn’t take long for the police to work out that he wasn’t the shooter. The officers are all apologies, helping John to his feet, telling him to to come out to the kitchen— or no, perhaps it’s better if you stay in here, sir, just sit on the bed while we get someone to take your statement.

Sherlock’s bed. 

Better, yeah; perhaps it is.

John lets them take his jumper. “For evidence,” he’s told; he peels it over his head as carefully as he can, trying not to disturb the bits of Margaret still clinging to the fibres, trying not to think too much about anything at all. A young women in uniform asks if she can get him something else to wear but he just shakes his head. 

He sits back on the bed in his vest and answers their questions as best he can. He’s just explaining what Margaret had been doing there in the first place when he spots Lestrade, dressed in jeans and sneakers under his jacket, making his way through the crowd in the kitchen. 

“Called in on your day off?” John asks him. It's absurd, in the face of all the wrongs committed today, but it’s still halfway to an apology. 

Everything feels very far away.

Lestrade’s mouth twists into a smile. “I used to come out here for every disturbance whether I was on duty or not. Only way to keep him out of lockup.” He doesn’t need to say Sherlock’s name for John to know who he means. “It’s been ages, of course, but some of the boys in dispatch still remember.”

John doesn’t recognise anyone else who’s come to process the scene. The _scene_ ; his flat. That’s hardly surprising; most will have moved on since the last time he was at a crime scene, promoted or transferred. It’s been three years, after all, since Sherlock’s—

John swallows and looks down at his hands, clenched into fists and pressed against the tops of his thighs. They feel distant, as though they belong to someone else, his pulse hammering as if forcing its way through borrowed flesh.

Sherlock isn’t dead. 

It’s impossible. _One more miracle. For me._ Sherlock isn’t dead.

If he just says the words out loud, perhaps, they might stay true. Be true. John swallows, touches his tongue to his lip. Doesn’t speak.

John feels, abruptly, impossibly tired. He could lie down here on Sherlock’s bed and sleep, even with all the noise around him. Nothing happened in here, after all; maybe, if he asked, everyone would leave Sherlock’s room, let him close the door. They could still work in the kitchen, the sitting room, everywhere else. Leave him here to sleep. In Sherlock’s room.

 _Adrenaline crash_. His hands feel cold. John recognises the symptoms, of course. _Shock_. Even that thought feels disconnected, distant and numb. 

He closes his eyes—little more than a blink, really—and sees Sherlock leaning against the wall, blood on his fingers; sees him crumpled on the pavement; sees Margaret, sprawled across the sitting room floor, blood pooling around what’s left of her skull. Sherlock’s limp wrist in his hand; Margaret still reaching for him. The images are equally sharp, vivid. More real than his own hands in his lap. It’s impossible.

 _Impossible,_ he tells himself forcefully. He’s in shock. Maybe he’s wrong. He must be wrong. 

He hasn’t had a flashback in years, but he remembers how real they can be. Remembers the feel of his forearm pressed against Sherlock’s throat. Doesn’t trust it.

It doesn’t matter what he remembers. Sherlock is dead. There are a dozen people here, and they’re all acting perfectly normal. No one else has seen him. It’s just the shock, and the blood, and his own mind fighting to process what’s just happened. Playing tricks on him.

But— no. It was him. It was Sherlock. Wasn’t it? Yes. John would know him anywhere. Yes.

Ella was right when she said staying here would drive him mad.

When he looks up again Lestrade is sitting with one hip hitched on Sherlock’s desk, arms folded across his chest. Deliberately casual; watching John’s face.

“Is everything all right?” Lestrade asks, his voice sharp.

There’s a pause that goes on just a fraction too long to be comfortable, then John can’t help it. He laughs.

* * *

Some time later they bring him out to the sitting room to give his statement. John can feel his feet on the carpet but feel clumsy, not quite connected to his legs. Even the air around him seems distant and muted. Margaret’s body has been taken away, but there are still vivid, discoloured sections on the carpet. John stares at them, remembering blood pooling on pavement, blood soaking into sand.

“Do you have any idea why someone might have wanted to hurt her, Doctor Watson?”

The voice is impatient; has John been ignoring him? He forces his gaze up from the carpet. Lestrade is still hovering just a few metres away, watchful and silent.

“I think— they might have been aiming for me,” he says. “She was just.” He doesn’t know how to finish that sentence.

The officer makes a note, shaking his head. “Well, that’s as may be, but no need to be getting yourself all worked up about it. In my experience, case like this, someone gets hit, it isn’t usually an accident.” 

Out of the corner of his eye, John sees Lestrade grab one uniformed figure and whisper something in his ear.

How to explain about the dot on his chest, about the tragedy of bad timing? About her standing up to help him, the absolutely wrong place at the worst possible time, and then he hadn’t been able to— he hadn’t— 

“She was a kid,” he manages. It doesn’t sound like his voice.

The officer makes a noncommittal sound. “They grow up fast these days.”

Do they? Not after something like this. John’s stomach clenches. But maybe— well, it seems like a coincidence, his flat of all places. She’d looked a bit like Sherlock, he supposes, with her dark hair. Maybe, from behind—

No. She didn’t look a thing like Sherlock. Dark hair, yes, but that’s all. This is just his mind trying to process what’s happened: two puddles of blood on the ground, two dark heads of hair. The shooter wouldn’t have seen that, though; couldn’t have seen what he saw.

No, she doesn’t— didn’t look a thing like him. But perhaps, from behind. From a distance, through a window.

Sherlock showed up immediately after that—it was him, John’s sure of it; almost sure—and christ, what if the shooter had thought—

Easy enough to mistake one body for another.

Margaret was alive and now she’s dead because he’d asked her to stay for a bloody cup of tea, and Sherlock. God damn it. Sherlock.

“And have you noticed anything suspicious lately? Anyone lurking about outside who shouldn’t have been, that sort of thing?”

Sherlock is dead, John knows that. He saw it himself, saw him jump. Took his pulse. He knows it as surely as he knows anything.

 _Yes,_ John thinks. _There was someone here who shouldn’t have been._ He just shakes his head. 

Maybe it wasn’t even him; maybe John imagined it. Some other intruder. Margaret’s dark hair, the blood. He’s in shock. Maybe his mind is playing tricks on it.

 _Don’t be stupid, Watson_. It was Sherlock, he knows it.

John thinks, from nowhere, of Irene Adler. She was dead, too, until she wasn’t. 

Sherlock was here, John knows it. He touched him. Sherlock had spoken to him, spoken his name.

“We have someone talking to the landlady downstairs. Is there anyone else who lives here?”

Mrs Hudson. He hadn’t even thought—oh, Christ.

There must have been something visible on his face, because Lestrade says, “Don’t worry, she wasn’t here when it happened. She let the girl in and then went out to do some shopping, pick up a few things to help her settle in. She’s just come back a few minutes ago.”

John squeezes his eyes shut, runs his hand through his hair. His throat feels tight.

The officer taps his pen against his notebook impatiently. “Sir, I need you to answer my question.” John frowns at him; he sighs with impatience. When he speaks, it’s hardly a question at all. “Anyone else. Here.”

“No,” John says. “No one. I’ve lived alone since—“ He swallows. He should tell them about Sherlock. He doesn’t know why he isn’t telling them about Sherlock. “Since my flatmate died.”

He’d thought he was alone in Battersea, that day when Irene came back. Sherlock had followed him. He can still feel his rage, born not even of his own grief but of Sherlock’s: _I’ll come after you if you don’t_. 

Sherlock had heard all of it, and then he’d gone. _I don’t think so, do you?_ she said, but John followed him anyway. He knew Sherlock. Knows Sherlock. He followed him anyway. But Sherlock—

Sherlock isn’t dead; Sherlock was here. Sherlock came through the fucking window after three years and then he just— he just _left_.

For just a moment the exhaustion fades and John is so angry he can’t even see. He’s breathing so fast his chest aches with the effort.

There’s a dead girl, a child in all the ways that count. She was shot by a sniper in his fucking sitting room, and _Sherlock isn’t dead_ , and there isn’t enough space in John’s head for either of these things on their own, much less all at once.

There’s a dead girl and it’s Sherlock’s fault. It can’t be a coincidence. It can’t.

What if that bullet had been meant for Sherlock after all? If Sherlock were the intended target and Margaret was hit by accident, not only because she stood up at the wrong time but because the sniper thought he had the correct target in his sights?

If it had been Sherlock on the sofa, would John have had to watch him die for a second time?

The question rises unbidden to his mind, sharp as glass: if it were up to him, what would John choose? An innocent girl or Sherlock, who was dead until he wasn’t, and then--

He can’t breathe. There’s no air in the room.

He can't breathe.

“John, mate, you need to sit down.” There’s a hand on his shoulder. Lestrade. John just barely restrains himself from physically attacking him. There's something sharp and bitter-tasting in his throat. “Look, maybe we should take you out of here for a bit while forensics finishes up.”

“No, no,” John says, shaking his head but letting Lestrade guide him to one of the kitchen chairs, trying to force some of his muscles to unclench. Lestrade is still watching his face; he needs to say something. Offer some sort of explanation. “I’ve just realised, I need to— I need to call her father.” 

Lestrade makes a sympathetic noise but some of the tension goes out of his face; this is something he understands. “We already got his number from Mrs Hudson, so he’s been informed. We’re going to bring him in to identify the body, answer a few questions, as soon as he can get here.”

“It should have been me. Arthur and I served together, I— I still need to call him.”

Lestrade pinches his lips together and nods, once. “Fair enough. Take some time to get yourself together first, yeah? He’ll be busy trying to arrange a flight, and I know you’ll want to— to do it right.”

John makes a dry sound that’s nothing like a laugh. _Tell him about Sherlock_ , he thinks. 

A young uniformed officer appears, and Lestrade turns to face him.

“We found the shooter’s vantage point, in the building over the street,” the officer tells him. “He’s cleared out, but he left the window open, and there are still scuff marks on the floor from his bipod. The angles match.”

 _Bipod_. Christ. He hasn’t seen one of those since Afghanistan.

“I called in a few favours,” Lestrade says. It sounds like an apology. “Got a few extra men out here. Lots willing to help out. They still talk about you two down at the Yard, you know.”

You two. John and Sherlock.

 _Tell him about Sherlock._

John’s tongue might as well be glued to the roof of his mouth.

“And I know you haven’t. Well. There isn’t much to find here, is there, so you’ll be able to stay if you want. We can get what we need without— we won’t make you vacate.”

John looks down at his hands; they’re steady. They shouldn’t be.

“You didn’t need to do that,” he manages. “I mean, I appreciate it, but—“

“Stay around here,” Lestrade breaks in. There’s an insistent edge to his tone. “We might need you for more questioning, but… well, John, I hate to say it, but things like this, when there isn’t much to go on. We may never catch the bugger. Don’t tell her father that, when you talk to him.”

Right. Arthur. He has to call Arthur.

“I— yeah. I won’t.”

“Does Mrs Hudson have somewhere to go?” 

John has to think about it for what might be a long time. “Her sister,” he says, finally. “She goes to visit her sister sometimes.”

“I’ll tell her to go there for a few days. And that goes for you, too. Go somewhere you feel safe, but don’t leave London. You can come stay at mine, if it—“

“I’ll be fine,” John says. His mouth is so dry; he just wants to sleep. “I mean, thanks, but.”

“Yeah.”

Sherlock was here. _Tell him_.

Lestrade’s mouth twists into a wry smile, and John finds he has nothing to say.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many many thanks to longtimegone and prettyarbitrary, both of whom have been extraordinarily patient with me in all of this.

Lestrade is the last to leave.

John is still sitting on Sherlock's bed. Has been sitting on Sherlock's bed for what feels like days. He's gone over what happened so many times that it doesn't feel real anymore; doesn't feel like something that happened to him. He's aware that there are things he needs to do, but all he feels is tired.

 _Sentiment_ , he thinks. _Is this how Sherlock did it? Went over and over it in his head until—_ He stops himself to amend the thought: _Does it. How Sherlock does it._

Sherlock was here, in this room. Even that feels distant, like something he dreamt. Maybe he did. Stress, shock, trauma; isn't that more likely?

_Just stop this._

John drops his head into his hands.

When he looks up again, Lestrade is standing just inside the doorway to Sherlock's room.

"Listen, John, we're about finished here but there's still a team across the street, so if there's… anything." He shoves his hands into his pockets. It’s a deliberately casual gesture, and it's only the fact that he's seen Lestrade do this before—with other victims, other witnesses—that allows John to recognise how careful Lestrade is being with him. 

John just shakes his head and forces a smile. He manages it, he thinks, or near enough. "No, but… thanks."

"You don't have to stay here, just make sure you're available," Lestrade tells him. "For questions. I'll be in touch, yeah?"

John can feel Sherlock's name on his tongue, pressing against his teeth. _Tell him_ , he thinks for what might be the hundredth time, but there's no force to it, and in the end he just nods. 

"I mean it.” Is he imagining the tightening at the corners of Lestrade’s eyes? "Anything."

Then John is alone.

He doesn't move from Sherlock's bed for what feels like a long time.

He needs to call Harry. And Arthur, Christ, he needs to call Arthur. He listens to the sound of traffic, the occasional shout or shared laugh, loud through the glassless sitting room window. He doesn't move.

John is roused, finally, by a violent tremor in his shoulders. He's shivering with cold; how did he not notice? He's still in his vest. He swallows, his tongue and throat so dry they feel gummed together.

It feels trivial, somehow, to acknowledge these minor discomforts, in the face of everything. A phrase floats into his mind, unbidden, from the early days of his training, before his first deployment: _In the event of an attack, the first priority must be the survivors._

The survivors. He doesn't laugh.

Then it's Sherlock's voice in his head: _And would caring about them help to save them?_ He can see Margaret, on the floor of his sitting room—no, not any longer, they took her body away hours ago; he blinks the image away—and Sherlock, and has to swallow down the bile that threatens to rise in his throat, because if he had to choose—

No. _No._ He can't think about this right now. He can't.

John grits his teeth and presses himself to standing. His muscles protest the movement but he ignores them because that _is_ truly trivial. He needs to call Harry and Arthur and he won't do it in his fucking _underwear_ , he needs to get dressed properly, get himself together. He climbs the stairs to the second floor as quickly as he can, trying to rouse himself to purpose through force of will. 

His room feels empty. Emptier than usual; abandoned, not his own. It takes him a moment to remember that it's because he cleaned it in preparation for Margaret's stay.

His stomach lurches. _Don't be absurd, Watson. Get it together. You're not thinking clearly._

John yanks open the door to his wardrobe, fighting down a sudden impulse to pull all his clothes from their hangers and throw them about the floor. He wants, suddenly, to smash something; he wants something to _fight_. He settles for shoving the hangers forward from where he'd pushed them to the back of the rod and pulling a shirt down, tugging it forcefully onto his shoulders.

The first button feels strange and unfamiliar to his fingertips. He can't get it fastened. Is it the wrong— no. His hands are shaking, that's all. Only that. He mashes the knuckles of his left hand against his teeth, just for a moment, then tugs the shirt off again and throws it on the floor. 

There's a girl dead and he couldn't help her. Of course he couldn't, he can't even dress himself, he's pathetic, he's— 

No. _No._

He's letting himself get distracted, is what he is.

John squeezes his eyes shut and breathes, five long, deliberate inhales through his nose. Today he saw a girl die in his sitting room, and he couldn't help her, and all that’s left is for him to make whatever apologies he can. There will be time later for him to deal with…. all the rest of it.

When he opens his eyes, he's ready to get on with things.

He makes his way back downstairs, through the sitting room—careful, careful; _don't think about it, just keep your eyes forward_ —to the kitchen. He gets a glass of water from the tap, downs it in three gulps, and manages half of a second glass before the roiling in his stomach threatens to bring it up again. He grits his teeth against it but relents, setting the glass down firmly enough that it doesn’t rattle against the countertop.

Better. That’s better.

Right. What next?

Phone. He needs his mobile, needs to make the call before he loses what nerve he has. It's still in his jacket pocket, on top of the bag he packed to take to Harry's. He picks it out and balances it in his hand for a moment, a reassuringly solid weight in his palm. A text to Harry first, just to let her know not to expect him. 

He taps out a quick message: `Have to reschedule the visit, there's been an emergency at the flat.`

Then, almost an afterthought: `I'm fine.`

She'll be angry but he just doesn't have the space in his head for her right now. He flips through his contacts until he finds Arthur's name. He scrolls by it twice. His hand is still shaking. 

He's not sure if he can do this.

John’s gaze catches on the stained carpet and he has to look away quickly, running his eyes up over the sofa, the shattered window, the coffee table, and—

The key.

The surface of the coffee table is empty. The key. He knows he put it there; knows it was there when the police arrived. He's sure of it. One of them even asked him about it. They dusted it for prints—just his, who else's? Margaret hadn't touched it, she hadn't had a chance, _Christ_ —and set it back on the table.

It's gone.

 _The Met might have it,_ he tells himself. And it's true—they could have taken it for evidence—but even as he thinks it, he knows they didn't. 

No. He knows where it is. He doesn't know how, but he knows who has it. Bloody fucking Christ.

John feels, suddenly, unbearably exposed, his breath coming fast against the anxiety pressing on his chest, hot rage and icy panic spiralling around his ribs. He just— he _can't_. Can't stay here in this flat a minute longer, with its broken window and bloodstained carpet and —

Out. He needs _out_.

He shoves his arms into the sleeves of his jacket. It takes him a moment to work out why the material scratches against bare skin. His fingers; the buttons; he meant to put on a jumper and never managed it. _Fuck_. It shouldn’t make him angry, in the face of everything else, but it does.

There isn't enough air in this flat; he shoves his mobile into his pocket—Lestrade's voice echoing in his head, _make sure you're available_ —and he could go up to get a shirt now but instead he finds his feet pounding down the steps to the street. 

He heads south, scarcely even seeing the street in front of him. It's early evening already, the streets beginning to empty toward nightfall.The air feels chilled against the heat of his skin, even through his jacket. It's comforting, somehow. Grounding. 

He just needs to walk for a bit, clear his head. 

The pavement is hard beneath his feet, aching all the way up to his throat with each step. He just wants to see some grass, stand on solid earth. Not pavement; just something to remind him that he isn't in the middle of the sodding desert. Dorset Square. It's not much, but it will have to do.

"John."

It's no less surprising the second time. 

John turns on his heel to see Sherlock unfolding from the shadowed doorway of a bookshop he's just passed, the evening light accentuating the shadows on his face, sharpening the slant of his shoulders. Sherlock is holding his head at an odd angle, half-squinting at John out of the corners of his eyes.

John finds himself thinking of Irene again, the way she strode out to meet him in Battersea. She looked triumphant. Defiant, almost. In the falling light, Sherlock’s eyes are nearly colourless, and John can’t make out any expression at all.

His chest aches. When he finds his voice it's unfamiliar, half-choked. "I don't suppose there's any point in asking."

Sherlock tips his chin sharply upward. A long pause stretches between them before he speaks. "Asking what?"

John's lip quirks into something that feels nothing like a smile. " _Anything_."

Sherlock hisses in a breath. "John." He takes a step forward, then hesitates, lifting one hand just a bit, fingers outspread, before letting it fall against his thigh. He blinks rapidly, and John watches the muscles jump in his temple. 

“Come on," Sherlock says, turning away with a sharp jerk of his shoulders. A police uniform, he’s wearing— it’s absurd. John doesn’t reach for him. He can’t. "We'll go home, then I'll answer all your—"

 _Home_. Back to Baker Street, he means, where John has lived alone for nearly three years; where, just that morning, John had been wearing a jumper covered in bits of what used to a young woman's skull.

The pavement tips dizzyingly beneath him. Then he finds his voice, lodged somewhere in the base of his throat.

"No."

Sherlock stops, turns, but John's already caught up to him, is digging his fingers into the sparse flesh of Sherlock's shoulder. He shoves Sherlock hard against the brick wall of the bookshop, pins him there with one forearm across his chest. There's something hot and uncontained surging up the back of John's neck; he leans into Sherlock with all of his weight, feeling the way Sherlock's chest is rising and falling with his breath.

Sherlock's breath. Christ. _One more miracle, for me_. John closes his eyes, just for a moment; opens them again to see Sherlock still here, somehow, still warm and alive and breathing against him, those pale eyes so close to his own John can see the little flecks of colour in the irises.

And the truth is, John has missed him, missed him with a visceral ache that still burns in the space between his lungs when he lets it. Seeing him again, hearing his voice— it's a miracle, a bloody miracle, truly, after everything.

Then he's stepping back, swallowing and swallowing against the heat rising in his chest, clenching and unclenching his fists at his sides. Sherlock keeps his back to the the wall, chin tilted upward to watch John down his nose. He has both palms pressed to the brick behind him; John looks at the long fingers and his palm itches with the memory of the stillness of Sherlock's wrist as he lay splayed on the pavement outside Bart's.

"Explain yourself," he breathes.

Sherlock's lips part, then press together again as he shakes his head, once. 

John closes his eyes, little more than a blink, and sees Sherlock on the pavement, Sherlock in his bedroom earlier that day, fingertips covered in his own blood, and when he opens his eyes again Sherlock is _still there_.

Sherlock opens his mouth again and John fights down a sudden urge to shove his hand against it. Whatever he's about to say can't possibly be an explanation, can't possibly be enough.

"Don't," John says, voice sharp, and Sherlock's brow furrows but his jaw snaps shut. "Just— don't. Whatever you're—” He breathes. There’s a wave of anxiety cresting dangerously beneath his words, but he’s breathing. “I need _normal_ right now, Sherlock." There are dark spots wavering at the edge of his vision.

When Sherlock speaks his voice is low, the words measured. "We need to get off the street, John. Let's just go home." John's stomach twists at the word. Sherlock’s eyes are locked on his, and he must be able to read something in John’s face because he sucks in a quick breath and his eyes darken, just for a moment, but he doesn’t look away. The muscles in his throat convulse as he swallows. “To Baker Street." 

"Do you have any idea," John says, speaking as evenly as he can, "what happened in that flat today?"

Sherlock blinks at him, his mouth drawing into a thin line. They're both breathing hard. "Yes," he says, quietly. "Yes, I— I was aware.” A pause. “Am aware.”

"Okay," John says with a tight upward nod of his chin, not looking away from Sherlock's gaze. "Okay. So. _No_."

"John, listen to me," Sherlock says, finally pushing himself away from the wall. John squares his shoulders and doesn't step back. Doesn't step forward, either, though the impulse to do so is just as strong. He needs to understand what is going on. "It isn't safe out here. For either of us."

"Dangerous.” John can hear the acrid bitterness of his own tone. “And here you are."

Sherlock is looking at him as though he's never seen him before. And maybe, John thinks, he hasn't; three years, how much has changed? "Please," Sherlock says. "I can't— you have to trust me."

The noise John makes is harsh and ugly, tearing at his throat. It’s nothing like a laugh.

“Yeah,” he says at last. “I do, don’t I.” It's the answer he's known he was going to give all along, really. He sweeps past Sherlock, moving along the pavement without a second glance, and this time, it's Sherlock who follows him back to Baker Street.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to longtimegone for unbelievably patient handholding, and prettyarbitrary for helping me work out the details.

John makes it all the way to the front door of the flat, and his breathing is steady. He gets the door open, watches his own fingers twist the knob on the door, shove it open, and his breathing is steady, in spite of the way Sherlock is crowding close against his back, all but pushing him inside.

He climbs the stairs, one foot at a time. He doesn't look back. He can't. There's something about pillars of salt and the Elysian Fields ( _heroes don't exist, John, and if they did—_ ) bouncing around inside his skull, but he doesn't examine it too closely. He keeps his eyes forward and his chest begins to hurt, aching all the way from his throat to the base of his spine.

"John."

They're in the sitting room. John's feet are on the carpet where Margaret's feet (then her hands, chest, what was left of her face) had been. Where Sherlock's feet are, too, both of them still in their shoes. It's not something he thought about, much, before Afghanistan: how boots change a body, the way the legs never quite lie naturally, how hard the damn things are to pull off. Here, at home, most people don't die with their shoes on. 

The tops of Margaret's shoes touching the carpet, soles turned up, and Sherlock—

"Don't say a word," John snaps at him. He unbuttons his jacket with fingers that won’t stop shaking, shoves it down over his shoulders. He’s still only wearing his vest, _Christ._ Still, the cold air is almost almost a relief. “I have to make a call."

It takes him two tries to push the right buttons, and when the phone rings straight through to voicemail he can't think what to say, not a word, so he leaves a message consisting entirely of dead air before he clicks off the call.

"He'll be on a plane by now," Sherlock says, quietly. And of course he's right, of course; John delayed too long, Arthur will be on his way here. "He's probably been in the air for hours now, if it— if that's better."

John turns to look. He can do it, now, because he can't lose any more than he has already; there isn't any farther down for Sherlock to fall. John's shoulders are so tense they send lines of fire all the way up his neck.

There are Sherlock's feet, on the carpet. He's wearing— they look like the same shoes. They _can't_ be the same shoes. Some things don't change, which is absurd, but why would they? The trousers of his borrowed uniform are too short, just a bit of sock visible below the hems. They're white but stained brown with dust. John's chest hurts. Sherlock's hands are hanging uselessly on either side of his hips, fingers clenched lightly into fists. _So are mine_ , John realises when he sees them, and he forces his own to relax. Tries to force his own to relax; it doesn't really work.

"Are you," Sherlock says. His voice sounds breathless and it reminds John to inhale, exhale, inhale, which burns, somehow, deep in the muscles and between the bones of his ribcage. "Are you all right?"

"Oh yes." John's voice doesn't sound like his own. "Just fine." His jaw aches; it must be why he's having so much trouble speaking clearly. His eyes still haven't made it any higher than Sherlock's waist. He's wearing a belt, a fucking police belt. It's the most ridiculous thing John has ever seen. "So are you. Apparently."

There's no glass in the window; John's nose is full of the copper-sharp scent of blood. He turns on his heel toward the kitchen. He needs— he needs something to do with his hands. Tea. He can—

It isn't the first time today he's tried, of course. He dropped the good service. He never used to use it when Sherlock lived here.

"John. _John_." Sherlock's hand appears at the edge of his vision, twists the tap to turn off the water. John doesn't remember turning it on, but his hands are wet. His face, too, and his vest, when he looks down. The kettle is lying on its side in the sink and he's breathing, more or less. "You should sit down." There's an odd halting quality to Sherlock's words.

"Why today." John's tongue feels too big for his mouth. There are so many questions piling up in his throat that it's thick with them. His chest is heaving. He can feel Sherlock at his back, the heat of him with a scant few inches of air between them, a careful, deliberate distance. He can do this, he can— they're here, in the flat. He can.

John squares his jaw and turns around. It's ridiculous to close his eyes but he does anyway, just for a moment. Opens them and doesn't let himself look away. "Why today?"

Sherlock's eyes are wide and green, somehow, above the ridiculous blue of the collar. John is breathing. There's a line of freckles across the bridge of Sherlock's nose. His face is carefully, deliberately still.

John swallows, touches the fingertips of his left hand to his mouth. "What I need to know is, why not—" He breaks off, tries again. He's repeating himself, but he has to know. "Why today."

Sherlock shakes his head, once. His hair is shorter and his skin is more tanned than John has ever seen it. There's no trace of blood anywhere, and— stop. _Stop it._

"You weren't in danger before," Sherlock says, quiet. He's watching John's mouth, John's hand on his mouth. _Wasn't I?_ John thinks. He came back to the flat, after— _after_ , and the door to Sherlock's room had been closed, and for months he came home from work and sat on his bed with his gun beside him, waiting for something to happen. It wasn't ever loaded. It didn't have to be; he was well-trained, he could strip and fire a weapon in under a minute. Chambering a bullet would take no time at all.

Sherlock turns his hands so his palms are forward, facing John, fingertips still pointed downward. Sherlock's wrist had been still, so still, under John's fingertips. In the fluorescent light of the kitchen he looks tired, eyes dark-circled, cheekbones and jawline stark. He has _stubble_ , John's never seen him with stubble, Christ.

"Okay," John manages. "So, because I wasn't— it just got a bit dull for you, then, did it, so when you turned out not to be—" Sherlock opens his mouth to speak but John is finding it remarkably difficult to force air up his throat and over his tongue, so he doesn't stop. "You just decided to take a holiday, is that it?" 

A holiday. Holidays are for young American girls about to see London for the first time and end up with their brains splattered all over the front of John's jumper.

"No." Sherlock's voice is rough. "John, I—"

"You didn't have a _pulse_." He doesn't meant to shout, but Sherlock is standing here in the kitchen of the flat they'd shared with a tan and new lines on his face and bloody _stubble_ on his jaw wearing a fucking police uniform. Sherlock's head hit the pavement and here he is. "Is this all just some kind of—" He's breathing. He is. "A girl _died today_ , and I'm pretty sure she's going to stay that way, so."

There's a sharp pain in John's chest and his vision goes a hazy grey-brown around the edges. Sherlock's fingers dig into his shoulders and he's being pulled forward, turned and pushed until the backs of his legs find the front edge of the one of the kitchen chairs. He doesn't fall into it, quite, and then Sherlock's hand is on the back of his neck, trying to push his head down toward his knees. John throws an arm behind him and Sherlock's weight disappears so that he can sit up properly. Sitting down is better, yes, but he bloody well isn't about to faint and he won't be _coddled_ by Sherlock fucking Holmes.

When John's vision clears Sherlock is squatting on the floor in front of his chair, elbows balanced on his splayed knees, looking up at John with eyes that won't stop moving. His skin is flushed from below the collar of his shirt and his mouth seems soft, at odds with the tension at the corners of his eyes.

"I didn't intend," Sherlock says, quiet.

John shakes his head. "Don't."

Sherlock's mouth presses into a thin line, for just a moment. Christ, he looks just the same; John balls his hands into fists and shoves them against his thighs to stop himself from reaching out. He doesn't know why, but he just— he can't, not yet.

Sherlock starts again. "I was close to something," he says. "I've been chasing the last few agents from Jim's— from Moriarty's network. It wasn't supposed to—" The long muscles of his throat work as he swallows. "But with him dead and myself— I was never going to have another chance like that again, John, can you— do you understand?"

No. No, he doesn't bloody _understand_.

Sherlock's mouth twists. His voice, when he speaks, is low and rapid, the words practically stumbling over his lips. "I couldn't— it wasn't supposed to take so _long_. But then I— he was here, John, the whole time. In London. I had to— and I almost _had him_ , until he realised who I was. And he knew— Moriarty threatened you, before, and he knew. He's _good_ , John. He knows, so he came here, he was—" Sherlock's runs his right hand through his hair, finally breaking John's gaze to stare over his shoulder. "He was forcing my hand, and I couldn't risk it. It was stupid, I was— but I couldn't risk it."

There's nothing about this that makes sense, but John feels himself nodding anyway. "You planned this," he says. It's odd, really, how calm he feels. His chest feels light, as though he might simply float away at any moment. "All of this, you—"

Sherlock shakes his head, once, and his hand darts out to grab John's knee. John doesn't jerk back from the touch. "No."

"Of course you planned it, you always have a plan. You made me watch, you—" Sherlock pulls his hand away and John stares at it, long fingers dangling in the air. _Keep your eyes fixed on me._ "That phone call, and you." He swallows. "You didn't have a _pulse_ , Sherlock."

Sherlock laughs, almost, and pushes himself to standing. "It wasn't supposed to _work_. I never thought it would actually—" He turns away. John watches the sharp line of his shoulders beneath the thin fabric of his borrowed shirt. "I didn't— it was a long shot at best, and I thought it was better if you didn't." He rests both hands on the kitchen countertop, leaning forward so his spine drops heavily between his shoulderblades, standing out stark in the overhead light. "Better if you didn't know, just. So that if I didn't."

"That. That doesn't actually make it _better_." John closes his eyes. _Inhale, exhale, inhale._ Opens them again. "You said it was all a trick."

"I meant—"

"I know," John says. That part he does understand, had understood even at the time. It angered him then, too. "But then you didn't— you couldn't have—" He can't work out what he wants to say, what words he could choose so that Sherlock will understand what the last few years have been for him. "You just let me go on thinking you were." He swallows. He can say it, if he doesn't think about it too hard. "You let us bury you."

Sherlock's shoulders jerk abruptly and he turns, back to the counter, looking at the floor. There are dark circles under his eyes. "I needed time, I needed. Needed to wait out the shift of power, needed them to let their defenses down. It wasn't supposed to work but then it _did_ , and I'd never have had another chance. Not like that."

Sherlock tips his chin up to meet John's gaze. His eyes look empty, _lost_ , like they had that day outside Bart's, wide and still, reflecting the sky. John has to blink hard, several times, until he can see Sherlock's face as it is, until the streaks of blood disappear from his mind's eye, because: no, Sherlock is standing here before him, alive, whole. Just as he was. 

But that isn't quite true either, is it?

"And then you come back as if— as if nothing has happened, dressed like—" 

"I needed to get back into the flat. I had to see that you were. That you hadn't been hurt."

John laughs, more or less, because it's ridiculous. Everything about this is ridiculous, except— except the parts that aren't. Except the girl who had come here on a holiday and is now in a bag, in the morgue, waiting for her father to show up to identify her body.

He remembers something. It's a tiny detail; it's everything. "The key. You came back to take it." He looks away. He can't meet Sherlock's eye.

"It's still not. There may still be— it isn't safe, yet, but I wanted you to know."

"It wasn't for you," John says, quietly. 

Sherlock doesn't speak. John watches his own hand, on his knee. It's steady. He can't meet Sherlock's eye. The wooden rungs of the kitchen chair are hard against his back. He isn't sure he's ever been so tired. 

It feels like a long time before he can organise any words in his mouth. "I could have," he says. "You could have. Told me, you know. After." 

"It was essential that they believe me to be—" Sherlock swallows. It seems he can't quite say it, either. "That they had no reason to be suspicious." Sherlock's eyebrow quirks, a gesture so familiar John's throat aches with it. "And for all your virtues, John, you're an abysmal liar."

"Not like you." It comes out harsher than John intends. 

Sherlock's eyes pinch closed. "Not like me, no."

The silence stretches out between them, long and thin. Neither of them speak. Then, with a sharp nod as though he's decided something, Sherlock pushes himself abruptly away from the counter. He doesn't meet John's eye, moving past him toward his old bedroom. John's gaze follows him and he turns and there, still hooked over the back of the other kitchen chair, he sees— oh, Christ.

His cane, set down to carry the tray out to Margaret, somewhere in the dim, distant past. He'd forgotten it, even after— he touches his tongue to his lip. Some things don't change. And why, after all, would they?

When he looks again, Sherlock has already divested himself of the police belt and worked open half the buttons of his shirt. He makes quick work of the rest, slides the shirt over his shoulders and down his arms, dropping it on the floor in a casual heap. John can't help but watch, cataloguing the way the lines of Sherlock's muscles shift beneath the skin, the slight hollows beneath the lines of his ribs, the— Christ. He has a mark on his right shoulder, puckered and still an angry purple-red, and a healing line just above his left kidney, thick and jagged on the outside, thinning toward his spine. Christ. _Fuck._

Sherlock has pulled the wardrobe open and is just standing in front of it, staring. It's empty. It's been empty since John first worked up the nerve to check, well over two years ago. Mrs Hudson or Mycroft, John always assumed; he never bothered to ask. It didn't matter.

Sherlock's shoulders slump, briefly, and he angles his gaze up to the ceiling. He doesn't turn to look at John. "I don't suppose there's. That there's… anything." It doesn't quite come out as a question.

The presumptuousness of it—that Sherlock's things would still be here, after all these years; that he can just waltz back into the flat in a fucking _disguise_ and assume John wouldn't have moved on, wouldn't have needed the space to get on with his own bloody life—sends a hot spike of rage burning up the back of John's neck. 

It takes him several cycles of breath before he feels his chest steady enough that he trusts himself to speak. "I haven't just been waiting for you, you know, I've— I have a job, and." And girlfriends, he doesn't say. "I haven't even lived here the whole time."

"I know." Sherlock's voice is quiet. 

John feels something in his chest soften, just a bit. Just enough. "What happened to the clothes you were wearing earlier?"

Sherlock turns to face him, one hand still outstretched, gripping the edge of the wardrobe door. He's still dressed in the bloody too-short trousers and his fucking _shoes_. Their eyes meet and Sherlock tips his chin down, curling his shoulders forward. It's awkward, tentative; he seems impossibly exposed, more naked than John has ever seen him. There's a darkened patch of skin stretching across one side of his ribcage. It's not as dark as his blood against the pavement, but it still shouldn't be there. John digs the nails of his right hand into his palm.

John knows he's staring. Sherlock meets his eye, finally, squaring his shoulders. Breathing; both of them doing that, at least. Neither of them move.

"I called the glazier," Sherlock says.

John blinks at him. " _What?_ "

"For the window, after. After I had to leave. Then I—" He gestures at the uniform shirt still lying on the floor.

John runs his hand over his face. "You called the— to fix the window. You. Jesus Christ."

"Yes," Sherlock says, the words sharp and clipped. "Yes, John, I called the glazier to fix the broken window. I wanted to— and then I had to go find this so I could get back in here, to see that you were. That you were still." His eyes flash with fire, just for a moment, then his mouth twists into a shape John doesn't recognise. His voice drops, softens: "I left them in the taxi."

There's a long, attenuated moment while they both stare at each other. Sherlock's eyes on his are sharp, hard, challenging in a way that John finds, suddenly, he's missed more than he would have expected. Something soft and light filters in around the sharp edges in John’s chest. It’s too much to hold. The knot of tension he’s been carrying in his gut shudders, trembles, cracks wide open. _Sherlock_. 

Sherlock's expression shifts from flinty to incredulous and then they're both laughing, the sounds shaking out of them, unsteady. "Oh my god," John gasps through a throat that still feels too tight for speech, "you— you took a—"

He doesn't even know why he's laughing, quite, but _christ_ it's a relief. It shakes something loose inside of him, something so long-held John has forgotten what it might feel like to be free of it. It’s easier, the laughter, than speaking through the tightness in his chest, in trying to find the words for something he can scarcely hold within himself. Sherlock’s eyes are shining, and John doesn’t understand and it isn’t okay—it isn’t, it _can’t_ be—but _fuck_ it's good to see him again. To see this.

And there is something left, isn't there, after all? The dressing gown. Upstairs. He can—

Sherlock leans against the warddrobe, shoulders still shaking, holding himself upright as though his spine has turned liquid. It stretches the skin tight across the hollows of his ribs and John’s stomach twists, the laughter dying in his chest. He sees Sherlock as he was earlier this morning, bent forward and coughing, touching tentative fingertips to his own head, staring at them when they came away bloodied. 

Sherlock had come through the fucking window and John had meant, sincerely, to kill him. The force of his earlier resolve echoes in his chest, at the base of his throat: _Intruder. Windpipe._ He can still feel the curve of Sherlock’s skull, the tickle of his hair against his palm. John had meant to kill him and _Christ_ , he could have. It would have been so easy, with Margaret’s body lying in the sitting room and her blood still on his jumper, he could have—

It’s Sherlock’s hand on his shoulder that brings him back to himself. Sherlock’s hand, warm and solid and _there_ , irrefutably. John is half-sitting on the floor, with the solid plane of the wall at his back. He feels more than sees the way Sherlock is crouching in front of him, leaning in.

Right. _Right_.

John rubs his hands over his face until his vision lightens and clears and there are Sherlock’s eyes, pale and oddly tentative, just inches from his own. John clamps a hand around Sherlock’s wrist, that delicate bridge of bone and tissue, and Sherlock tenses briefly but doesn’t pull away.

And there: Sherlock’s pulse. Is it the same arm as that afternoon outside Bart’s? He doesn’t remember. It doesn’t matter. It’s there, rapid and insistent under his fingertips. 

John drops his chin forward, just for a moment, letting his forehead rest against the hollow under Sherlock’s collarbone. Closes his eyes. Sherlock’s chest is still bare; his skin is warm and solid, as warm and solid as the rest of him, rising and falling with his breath.

John breathes, touching his tongue to dry lips, and doesn’t open his eyes. There was one tragedy today and there could have been another—so easily, the possibilities still a jumble of chaos below his ribcage— but this. This, it’s a miracle.

John wraps his left arm around Sherlock’s shoulder to splay his palm across the sharp surface of Sherlock’s scapula. Sherlock gives a sharp exhale that ruffles the hair on the top of John’s head.

It doesn’t make sense. It isn’t okay. John wants to stay, for a long time, just as they are.

“That was stupid,” John says. “What you did.”

Sherlock doesn’t answer and John lets his hand fall away from Sherlock’s shoulder, tips his head back until it hits the wall. He keeps his eyes closed. “If I’d hurt you,” John says, “I would have—“

“You didn’t,” Sherlock breaks in, too quickly. 

“In case you’ve forgotten, there was a girl killed in my sitting room today. By a sniper. Sneaking in through the window—“

Sherlock tenses. “The plan was to— I’d have come through the door, except for the. Your visitor.” There’s a rustle of fabric as he stands, moving away from John. John keeps his eyes closed. “When Mrs Hudson opened the door to let her in, I had to— it wasn’t safe yet, John. I couldn’t let myself to be seen.”

“Why?” Even John can hear the way his tone rises and breaks on the question. Too much; it’s too much. He swallows, tries again. “Why today, of all days?”

Sherlock huffs a sharp exhale down his nose. “Well, John, as you may be aware, there was a sniper trained on the window of the— of your flat. I couldn’t approach with her there, so I had to, ah. Go a different route.”

“Margaret. She has a _name_ , Sherlock, she was here on holiday, she—”

“She was at the wrong place at the wrong time.”

John can’t open his eyes. He can’t. He shoves his right palm against his forehead. It isn’t enough; he presses the left one against his eyelid until his vision fills with bright starbursts of colour. “The wrong place being _my_ sitting room.” His voice sounds choked, even to his own ears.

“As you say. Nevertheless, her presence here was merely a coincidence.”

“And then you— you. Through the _window_ , Sherlock, and I nearly—” He can’t finish his sentence. He can’t breathe.

“You didn’t,” Sherlock says softly. “John. You didn’t.” 

John drags his eyes open to see Sherlock standing awkwardly in the middle of the room, staring down at the uniform shirt clutched in his hand as though deciding whether to put it on again. His shoulders are wrenched in an awkward line. When he looks up his face is pale beneath the tan, the expression in his eyes vulnerable and lost. Not dead, but here, standing in the room that used to be his own, half-naked and newly scarred. He might as well be wearing someone else’s skin.

But still, despite everything: _Sherlock._

John doesn’t understand, and it isn’t okay. There’s a hollowness at the base of his spine, behind his eyes, in his chest. He can still feel the echoes of their laughter in his diaphragm and the heat of Sherlock’s hand on his shoulder, and he thinks, nonsensically, _I want him back as himself._

John presses himself to standing. The dressing gown, still upstairs. It’s absurdly little, in the face of everything, but it seems wrong not to offer it.

Sherlock watches John walk out of the bedroom without a word. John’s leg is aching and he knows he’s limping, but neither of them speak as he walks out through the kitchen—ignoring his cane; he won’t give in to this, not now—and through the sitting room, out the door and up the stairs toward his own bedroom.

John hasn't thought of it as Sherlock's dressing gown for a long time, but it's still there, in the flat. He'd found it hanging against the back of the door, left behind by whoever had packed up the rest of Sherlock's things. He left it there for months, and still doesn't know why he moved it upstairs, but he'd done that, too. Then there was the incident with the bleach on his old dressing gown and he'd just… put it on. It had long since ceased smelling like Sherlock. But it was— it _is_ his, isn't it.

John retrieves it from its hanger at the back of his warddrobe. He hesitates at the doorway of his room, feeling both hollow and heavy, as though something essential had dropped out of his chest and was still waiting for him downstairs. 

Was this what Sherlock felt, he wonders, when he saw Irene in Battersea? John had thought he knew what Sherlock was feeling, then, but this— this is nothing like what he thought. Nothing could have prepared him for this. But then, of course it couldn’t; it’s hardly the same situation, is it? Irene had walked out with that look of triumph on her face and John had been angry, but for Sherlock, not himself. Angry because he’d been worried, but this is nothing like what he’d been worrying about. Sherlock died and John got on with the business of eating and sleeping and living his life, and now Sherlock is back and John feels hollow and liquid with relief.

Sherlock stood on that rooftop at Bart’s and said it was all a lie, all a trick, and John denied it. _The very first time we met._ Is still denying it, all these years later. Would deny it now. Even now.

But, no, he’s forgetting something important. Margaret is dead, and that’s— that’s wrong. John knows it’s wrong, that he should feel so much relief in the face of actual tragedy. Sherlock is back and John is already being sucked back into his orbit, his gravitational pull warping John’s perspective. It _hurts_.

He makes his way back downstairs on legs that feel disconnected. He’s tired, wrung out with exhaustion and the crash of adrenaline. The dressing gown is balled in his hand. Sherlock will be able to tell he wore it. Of course he will. John will have to get used to being transparent again.

Transparent. Like a sitting room made of glass. Something is nagging at the back of his mind. It takes him until he reaches the first floor landing to realise just what it is. 

Sherlock is leaning against the back of the sofa. His head snaps up when John enters. Christ, he looks thin, even for him, drawn and exhausted, the bones of his face and shoulders sharp under the overhead lights. John swallows and hands him the dressing gown; Sherlock blinks at it in astonishment then snatches it from John’s hand, wrapping it around his shoulders quickly, not meeting John’s eye. Something in John’s chest eases at the sight of the familiar material draped across Sherlock’s shoulders. He fights the urge to stare, tears his eyes away, but he still can’t look at the carpet, can’t look at the sofa. 

John stares at the empty window, the way the streetlights catch and distort against the jagged edges of the glass still clinging to the frame.

“So,” John says as Sherlock turns his back to skim the borrowed trousers down over his legs, “I have to ask. If it was so important that you not be seen. I mean. They didn’t find the sniper.”

“No,” Sherlock says. “Hardly a surprise, I’ve been hunting him for years. He’s good, John.”

John swallows again. His throat feels dry. “Yes,” he manages, “I do rather. Er.”

Sherlock turns to face him, his face twisted into something like sympathy. “I suppose you do.” 

“But if Margaret wasn’t his intended target,” John touches his tongue to his lip, “and the Yard didn’t catch him, then— is he going to try again?”

Sherlock rubs one long-fingered hand along his jawline, down the side of his neck, tipping his head back to stare up at the ceiling thoughtfully. “ He had plenty of time to clear out before they got their heads out of their arses, but of course he’s going to try again, he’s—“ Sherlock falls silent and their eyes meet. Sherlock’s eyes are gleaming. “ _Oh!_ ”

Understanding slams through John like an electric shock. His ears are abruptly full of the pounding beat of his own pulse, everything in his head screaming _danger_ , even before long fingers wrap around his wrist in an iron grip, and they pull each other back toward the cover of Sherlock’s bedroom, out of the sightline of the window.


	6. Chapter 6

"Well," Sherlock says, one hand tugging on the hair above his left ear. "I'll admit, that was perhaps." He trails off, begins pacing the length of the bedroom, stopping just shy of the doorway, the edge of the sightline for the sitting room window. The overhead lights are off; Sherlock's eyes are pools of shadow in the late-evening light.

John is propping himself up against the wall beside Sherlock's bedroom door, drawing air into his chest in great gulps. "Okay, so." He inhales again. His voice doesn't sound nearly as shaky as it feels, which is something. "If he's still out there—"

"Moran," Sherlock says. Then, to John's puzzled look: "The sniper, John, do try to keep up."

"Right," John snaps. "So you know the sniper's _name_ , of course you do. I suppose you had this all planned out, you knew precisely—"

"No," Sherlock says, too quickly. "No, John, I didn't. That is, I've been— I told you, I've been chasing him, chasing him for _years_. I didn't— but yes, I know his name."

John lets himself slide down until he's sitting on the floor, closes his eyes, tips his head back against the wall. He's exhausted and buzzing with receding adrenaline but his head feels clear, clearer than it has all day, now that the threat has at least been identified. 

Sherlock is still speaking, quick and low as though talking to himself. "Of course, he's the last left and he'll have pressed his advantage, with me cornered he would have bided his time and gone back to the same— or no, perhaps a floor above, higher angle. Obvious, too obvious, it's _brilliant_."

"So, right, he's back across the street, is he?" Something clicks into place in John's head. "The flat damaged by the bombs four years ago? It's still under construction; I'd been told there was some sort of—"

Sherlock spins on his heel to face him. "No, John, do you see? There was no _delay_ , it's all part of the plan, it—"

 _Red_.

It's all that has time to register in John's mind before he's shoving himself forward to grab Sherlock's waist, pull him down.

Red dot on Sherlock's chest.

 _No_.

Sherlock, caught offguard, makes an indignant noise as the air rushes from his chest. They land in an untidy heap, John already scrambling into a crouch as he calculates angles. Sightline from the sitting room window, sightline from Sherlock's bedroom window, but they should be— they should be _safe_ , here, more or less, in the space between the bed and the open space of the doorway. As long as they stay low, below the level of the bed, they'll be— they'll be okay. 

He couldn't save Margaret and he doesn't have his gun but if nothing changes, he can do this. He can keep them both here and breathing and it just— it has to be enough. To do that. It has to be.

John sits heavily, turning to tip his head against the side of the mattress. He lets his eyes fall closed and it's all red and dizzying and dark, _red_ , Margaret's blood, Sherlock's blood on the pavement and on his fingers, bright points of light on his forehead and his chest.

He can feel Sherlock stirring, pressing himself up to sitting. 

"Don't," John says, too quickly.

There's a sharp intake of breath from Sherlock's direction; a long pause before he speaks, his voice soft and careful. "Moran is all that's left. The lights are an intimidation technique, you know, it must be a trick, only one of those will be _active_ , I can—"

"You will stay down." John grinds the words between his teeth. They still come out too quickly. "I don't have my gun, I don't— I'm not watching you. Again." He could have, earlier, he could have had to, right here in the flat. The thought gives him a sudden swimming vertigo; he shoves it away. "So just— just _stay down._ " He keeps his eyes closed, counts his breaths. His nerves are tingling below his skin, tense, stretched nearly to breaking. He can feel the dark edges of panic cresting dangerously in his chest and he will not do this while sitting on the floor of Sherlock's bedroom. He will not. He just. He won't. _Inhale. Exhale. Inhale._

Sherlock's hand comes to rest lightly against the top of John's knee where it's drawn up toward his chest. Sherlock's hand; too much. The touch sears into his skin, even through the fabric of his trousers. "Don't," John gasps out. The weight of it withdraws immediately.

 _Exhale._ It hurts; it's manageable. _Inhale. Exhale._ Better.

Margaret is dead and there are snipers outside the windows but he is alive, and Sherlock is alive. Sherlock is _alive_. They just need to get through the next— the next minute, the one after that. They need to stay down; he needs to breathe; he can't think farther ahead than that. His throat aches, and his chest.

It feels like a long time later that Sherlock's voice drifts out of the darkness in front of him. "John." 

John doesn't respond. The receding adrenaline has left his head and chest hollow, too empty for words.

Sherlock makes a harsh sound that breaks in his throat. John forces his eyes open, finally; Sherlock is a few scant feet away from him, sitting cross-legged toward the edge of the space shielded from the window by the bed, shoulders casting sharp shadows in the streetlights filtering into the otherwise-dark room. He has his elbows balanced on his knees, forehead dropped forward into his palms.

After a moment Sherlock seems to realise John is watching him. He tips his head up and drops his arms to cross them in front of his stomach, drawing the material of the dressing gown tight across his shoulders. John can see the wiry contours of muscle in Sherlock's arms through the thin fabric. It makes him look oddly bare.

"I don't suppose you have your phone." There's something dark and unfamiliar curling through Sherlock's voice. His toes flex against the carpet, long and pale. John is still wearing his shoes; he shakes his head. "We'll just have to wait it out, then." The words are tentative, Sherlock's voice catching slightly on the spaces between them. "Until morning. The— the angle of the light on the windows, it will be." 

He doesn't say _safe_. John parses that, weighing the omission before he nods again, touches his tongue to his lip. His throat is dry, which is ridiculous. There's an audible sound when he swallows around nothing and Sherlock turns his head away, his profile stark in the low light. 

"All a part of your plan, then? This?" It comes out harsher than John intends. No, that can't be true, because there'd been no space in his head for intention; John is simply surprised at how harsh he sounds. The effort of speaking hurts just as much as keeping silent had done.

Sherlock doesn't look at him. "No, John, I didn't intend. That is, I didn't think—"

" _Obviously_." John spits the word out, cutting Sherlock off. Sherlock's mouth snaps shut. John tips his head back against the mattress, gaze sliding up to the ceiling to avoid having to see the look on Sherlock's face. 

They wait. The only sound in the room comes from outside, on the street, the occasional late-night sounds of central London, continuing on as though nothing has changed. The chill starts in John's hands, brought on by the ebb of adrenaline and enforced inactivity; he shifts, trying to find a more comfortable position on the floor, but every move sends protests through muscles that quiver with fatigue. The exposed skin on his arms begins to shiver into goosebumps and then he's shivering outright with cold. It's ridiculous. It's _humiliating_. They're still not safe, everything still feel sharp-edged and exposed, but he just— he needs. Needs something, for himself.

It takes quite a bit of awkward pulling, twisting with his arm to avoid raising any part of himself above the cover afforded by the top of the mattress, but eventually he manages to shake and tug the duvet off Sherlock's bed. He tucks it around his own shoulders, drawing his legs up into a tight ball, hugging his knees to his chest to ease the ache in his thigh. 

He's been resolutely avoiding looking at Sherlock since the silence fell between them but they're confined in a small enough space that it's no surprise when Sherlock says his name. The spike of rage up the back of his neck is duller than he might have expected, softened by exhaustion, but it's still all he can do not to shout in response. He didn't ask for this, didn't ask for any of this, a young woman killed in his home. He wants to feel glad that Sherlock is back but he can't, not after everything else, not without horrible pangs of guilt and confusion. He wants space to think, he needs _time_ , and instead he's stuck here on the bloody floor, he just— he can't.

John lets out his breath, loud and rough. " _Don't_." He closes his eyes, tugging the duvet tighter around himself as he leans back against his end of the bed. "Not now."

* * *

It can't be much later when he blinks his eyes open, because the room is still dark. The muscles of his shoulder and neck have begun to cramp. Where— right. Right.

He stifles his groan—of course, of _course_ — and gingerly rubs the back of his neck with one hand, clutching the duvet more tightly around his shoulders with the other. He glances over to see Sherlock, only a foot or two away from him on the floor. He's lying curled against the carpet with his forehead toward John's knees, his feet tucked into the space under the bed, arms wrapped tight around his chest to draw the dressing gown close against his back. 

John unbends his knees to stretch his stiff legs and watches Sherlock's chest rising and falling gently with his breath, taking in the reality of his presence here. _Sherlock_. There's the tan, and the hair, and John has seen his new scars, but— Christ, he looks just the same. He even smells the same, that sharp scent of adrenaline-fuelled sweat John remembers from late-night returns to the flat. Sherlock's lips are soft but even in sleep John can still see the evidence of strain around his eyes, the dark circles and taut skin, the sight of it making something dark and close inside his own chest crack open. 

And no, not just the same after all; he's thinner, thinner even than when John first met him. Even asleep he's obviously exhausted, as strung out as John has ever seen him after a difficult case, after days of running on caffeine and the occasional bite of food snatched from John's plate, and it— it just— it hurts.

Sherlock shifts and his hand slips free from where it's clutching his dressing gown. It falls slack to the floor, palm upward, fingertips slightly curled. The material of the dressing gown gapes slightly and John finds himself staring at Sherlock's chest, the pale skin prickling with chill, and he _knows_. He still doesn't understand and it almost hurts to admit to himself but he knows he isn't going to— Christ, he isn't going to turn Sherlock away. The realisation sits heavy and uncomfortable as a lump at the base of his throat because that was never an option, really; John's known it since he first saw Sherlock earlier that afternoon, for all his confusion and anger. Of all his many questions, that has never been one.

 _One more miracle, for me._

And here he is, after all. Here they both are.

John unwinds the edge of the duvet from where it's tucked under his thigh and edges around so he can drape it over Sherlock's torso. Sherlock shifts slightly, clutching at it, before his eyes pop open. He sits bolt upright with a jerk. John reaches out to wrap his fingers around Sherlock's wrist, preventing him from standing up. Sherlock tenses instinctively, wiry muscles cording in his arm, then relaxes in John's grip, allowing John to pull him down until he's balanced on one elbow, safely out of range of sightline from the window.

They stare at each other for the space of several breaths. _Silent,_ John realises. Sherlock woke disorientated but on alert and silent, even when John grabbed him. John thinks of cold mountain nights, jolting awake in the silent dark to the feeling of _danger_. Thinks of reaching for his weapon while stifling his own breath, already on alert prior to the return of full consciousness.

"Been like that, has it?" John asks, softly. 

Sherlock's eyes narrow briefly, his mouth twisting into a smile that betrays no amusement at all. "I've been close, which means— so have they." There's a pause. "So has _he_."

Sherlock glances down to where John's fingers are still clamped tight around the bones of his wrist. John follows his gaze and pulls his hand away, too quickly. They both occupy themselves for a few moments with shifting to lean against the bed, shoulder to shoulder with a few inches of air between them, duvet pulled halfway up their chests.

"You should have—" John has to stop to clear his throat; it feels too tight for speech. Three years, three long bloody years without a word, but it's still too dangerous, too exposed. Today, then. Focus on today. "I was a _soldier_ , Sherlock. I know how to defend myself, I know how to— you should have told me." He can hear his own voice in memory, harsh with anger and incredulity: _Tell him you're alive_. 

"You were too closely monitored for me to, to call or email, I had to— I _tried_." Sherlock tips his head back against the mattress. "I thought I could still. I thought I had time."

Sherlock falls silent and stays that way while John works out what he means. It takes him an embarrassingly long time. When he speaks, he has to fight to keep his voice even. "You knew Moran would be watching me. You— I was bait. I was bait, and you were, what? Trying to take advantage?" His voice very nearly gets away from him, at the end, and John clenches his hands into fists beneath the duvet. His chest is beginning to ache again.

Sherlock's shoulders jerk slightly, not quite a shrug, but he doesn't deny it. "I thought, if I could surprise him, but then there was the girl—"

"Margaret," John grits out. Sherlock knows the sniper's name but not— not hers. No one ever puts civilian casualties on a monument, which has never sat right with him. They die with their shoes on, too. 

John half-expects him to say that her name doesn't matter—she isn't the one trying to kill them, after all— but Sherlock's chin just jerks down briefly in acknowledgement. He goes on, speaking too quickly. "— and I had to hide so she wouldn't see, I didn't know if she was. She could have been anyone, John. I thought I had _time_."

"You were." John touches his tongue to his lip. He wants to look at Sherlock but he can't, he just— he can't. "You were too busy playing the game. She got shot because you were _late_." John feels the bed shake as Sherlock moves. " _Stay down_ ," he hisses, "don't be an idiot," and Sherlock falls still again.

John's head is a muddle of half-formed thoughts. Sherlock was late, so John didn't know, couldn't do anything to help her. He was _late_ because he couldn't miss the opportunity to play his bloody fucking _game_. But if he'd been there, if it had been him in front of the sitting room window— christ.

"Would you have come in at all, if she hadn't." John swallows. "If Margaret hadn't been killed? Would you have—"

"I couldn't risk being seen. I still can't, not until— so, no." 

_And I still wouldn't know_ , John thinks, dully. There's anger simmering low in his chest but it's faint, dulled by exhaustion. _He'd still be out there, and I wouldn't know._ Three years without a word; who knows how much longer it would have been.

"I could have _helped you_ , Sherlock." John's voice sounds choked, and Sherlock doesn't answer.

But that isn't quite everything, is it? Because Sherlock hadn't called on him to help but he was still here, which meant… which meant John was still a part of it, after all. That John still had a role to play.

"But you risked it because. Because Moran was here. Because _I_ was here. Was I—" The words feel heavy on his tongue, thick in his throat. He needs to hear it in Sherlock's voice. "I was. I was some sort of, of. Bait."

Sherlock's hand snakes out from beneath the duvet and he runs his fingers through his hair, three times, before he speaks. "Yes." The word is low, barely more than a breath.

"Jesus," John says. "Sherlock, you just— you can't _do that_ , you can't use me like that. People will die, did you think of that? They die." John's breath is coming faster. He needs to get away from Sherlock, he needs _air_ , but he can't. He's trapped here. He shoves the duvet away and just— just breathes through the tightness in his chest. "She was a _kid_. And I could have. _Jesus_." 

"Bait, John, yes." Sherlock turns, hand falling away from his hair to hover briefly in the air between them. The lines of his mouth are blurred with pain. "But not— not for Moran, for _me_."

" _What_?"

Sherlock makes a small, pained noise. "I told you I was getting close. An animal is always at its most dangerous when cornered. And I did have him cornered, John. It took three years, but I." Sherlock's mouth twists. "He forced my hand."

They stare at each other for a long time, just breathing the same air, not moving.

"You lied to me, Sherlock, you made me." He can't say it, even now. "Then not a word, all this time. Not a bloody word from you for three years. Why would he think you'd come back now, just because." John is surprised at the vehemence in his own voice.

Sherlock actually laughs, a harsh, barking sound. "Considering the success this particular tactic has yielded in the past, it's surprising it took him this long to try."

God, only Sherlock would be trying to apply analysis to this, now. "You must have planned. Planned _everything_ , how you would. You made me watch. I took your pulse, Sherlock. You _didn't have one_. You must have mapped it all out, how you'd trick me, how you'd—"

"It wasn't supposed to _work_ ," Sherlock breaks in, the words coming out high and fast. "John, I didn't— that is, there was a plan, but when I jumped I hardly dared suppose it would actually. But if I walked away it was essential that it be believable, because you were—"

Sherlock breaks off abruptly, pressing his lips together into a tight line. His eyes look large and empty, practically pleading, but John forces himself not to look away.

"Because I was _what_ , Sherlock," he says. "Tell me what I was, that necessitated you doing. Doing _that_ , to me and— and everyone. What was it you said, _alone protects you_? Too much dead weight dragging you down. Was I not clever enough to help you, with whatever you were planning?"

"You were _in danger_." Sherlock's voice edges into a shout. He takes a deep breath that shudders in his chest, and the next words come out with at least a semblance of control. "You and Lestrade and— and _Mrs Hudson_ , John. All of you. If I didn't. So I had to— I had to go through with it, in the end. They had to believe me dead."

"Mrs Hudson?" 

"Mm. It seems his powers of observation were quite— quite ruthlessly acute."

John shakes his head once, a slight sideways movement, and wrenches his attention back to what he knows. Thinks he knows. "Okay. But I— I _saw you_. You must have arranged it, you must have had help." John breathes through his mouth, trying to match Sherlock's control, focusing on the words he understands. "And that doesn't explain why you didn't— tell me. You _should have told me._ "

Sherlock's lips part around a rough exhale. "John, listen to me. _I didn't think it would work_. The chances of it actually working were— were _miniscule_ , but I didn't want you to. Even if there were the slightest chance that I would have— wouldn't have survived, I didn't want you to think that I. That it might be a trick, if I were actually dead. False hope is— I wanted to spare you that, if I could."

Sherlock slumps forward, dropping his forehead heavily into his hands, the lines of his shoulders taut with strain. John presses his fists into his thighs to avoid reaching out because he doesn't know, honestly, whether he would hug Sherlock or hurt him. Isn't sure there's much difference between the two, anymore.

John breathes and breathes and breathes until his chest feels steady enough to speak. The words come out dark and tinged with bitterness, but he can't seem to care. "Okay, you're going to have to bear with me here, Sherlock, because I'm not a genius like you. So what you're saying is that you jumped off that rooftop because it. Because there was a threat, to me and Mrs Hudson. That you intended— you actually intended to die, all that about it being a note." John's stomach twists. "That doesn't actually— that doesn't actually make it better, Sherlock. I still watched you die. It doesn't actually help to find out that you thought what you were doing was somehow for my benefit."

"Oh, so you're the only one who gets to make that sort of gesture, are you?" Sherlock's voice is hard as flint. "Is it so hard to believe that I might value your life as highly as you value mine?" He raises his head to meet John's gaze. His face is dark, his eyes gleaming. "The _pool_ , John. Don't be more of an idiot than you are. I'd only known you a few months, and you. You told me to."

John can still feel the press of his forearm around Moriarty's throat, can recall the absolute certainty with which he'd acted. _Run_. It hadn't even been a choice. Christ. _Christ_. The memory warps, twists, until it's Sherlock's throat in his grasp, earlier that day, and John swallows down the bile that threatens to rise in his throat.

"Sentiment, John," Sherlock says, voice rough. "It seems I. I may have failed to anticipate the effects." The noise he makes is nothing like a laugh. “For all I observed, I could not have anticipated the impact of such a decision in the moment of crisis. As it were.”

"As it were," John echoes drily.

"I suppose you'll be glad to know that I have come to— that I have a better understanding of it. Now."

Sherlock tips his chin up to meet John's eye, and John recognises what he hadn't been able to acknowledge earlier; the hard edges of Sherlock's face betraying just what he's sacrificed these last few years. John has seen the same change in his time on base, in boys returned from their first deployment. He swallows. He feels breathless, deflated. 

"After you— _three years_ , Sherlock. You should have contacted me." He doesn't say, _You should have let me help, let me spare you that_. "What you did, to make me watch you, it was—is—cruel."

"Sentiment often is," Sherlock says quietly. His face, in the shadowed dark, is a careful blank, but his next inhale is audibly rough. "It wasn't supposed to go on so long, I didn't— I truly didn't know. If I had known. But Irene isn't in America, John; you're an appalling liar, and I suppose I thought I'd never have another chance like that again. I kept telling myself it would be just a bit longer, that it would be— would be a disservice to you, if I put you through that and then didn't. Didn't manage it." His mouth twists into something that might be genuine amusement. "It seems I am less… less _efficient_ , on my own," and Sherlock is enough the same man that John can hear his words for the apology they are.

It isn't okay. It truly isn't okay. "Sherlock, it's been--" He breaks off, swallowing around nothing, and Sherlock's hand darts out to rest against the back of John's wrist where it lies atop his knee. He looks down at it, the long lines of Sherlock's fingers pressed against his skin, and places his other hand overtop it. Sherlock's skin is warm against his palm. "This isn't a game, you can't—"

"John, please believe me when I tell you," Sherlock breaks in, voice pitched low, "that I do understand that. That it has become apparent to me that— that what is at stake is more than." Sherlock's fingers tighten convulsively, just for a moment. "That I understand that there is… more to be lost. Which is why, in the morning, as soon as we can—" he waves his free hand dismissively at their surroundings, encompassing their current situation, and drops his eyes to the space between their knees, "— I intend to make use of your mobile to call Lestrade, because it seems I. This goes beyond the personal, and I— I find myself incapable of. That is, I have concluded that this is something—" He takes a deep breath, the final words coming out in a rush. "I find that I cannot do it on my own."

John stares at him for the space of one breath, two, three. Then he drops his eyes to Sherlock's hand clasped between both of his. "It isn't okay," he says again, because he needs to be sure that Sherlock understands.

"It isn't," Sherlock says, "but I can assure you that it's over, or will be soon, which is, I'm afraid, the best that I can offer."

John thinks of Arthur, whose flight must have landed hours ago, who will have already had to face his daughter's body laid out on the coroner's slab. It isn't over, for everyone, but he can already feel something warm and welcome beginning to glimmer in his chest. False hope would be cruel indeed, John thinks, because Sherlock is alive and if he's ready to accept not just John's help but that of the Met, then maybe, _maybe_ —

"Humility, from Sherlock Holmes. I never thought I'd see the day."

Sherlock shoots him a sharp look, "Well, we have both spent the entire night hiding on the _floor_."

The laugh shakes out of John's chest, waves of tension radiating outward from his spine. Sherlock follows soon after, the harsh lines of his face dissolving into laughter. 

They end slumped together against the bed, the duvet draped around both their shoulders, John's right hand resting lightly on Sherlock's left thigh. Sherlock covers it with his own, brings the other to draw John's head down. John turns, pressing his forehead against Sherlock's shoulder, breathing in the scent of him. "Come on," Sherlock half-whispers, his voice rumbling out of his chest. "It's still hours until sunrise, might as well get a bit of sleep if you can." And John could protest—Sherlock must be tired, too, and one of them ought to stay awake to keep watch—but he feels his fingers squeeze Sherlock's thigh once, lightly, in acknowledgement, and lets his eyes slip closed.

Hours still until morning and difficult calls to make when it comes. It isn't over, and it isn't okay, but Sherlock's words belie an entirely new sort of understanding and there is, perhaps, something to be found in that. Sherlock is here and they're both breathing and it might—just might—be enough to be getting on with.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All the thanks to longtimegone who has been a saint throughout this writing process. An absolute saint.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Nowhere To Go But Home](https://archiveofourown.org/works/801537) by [yalublyutebya](https://archiveofourown.org/users/yalublyutebya/pseuds/yalublyutebya)




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